“I’m not interested in your games.”
“This isn’t a game.” His tone doesn’t change. I’m terrified now. “This is a gift. Consider it a wedding present, delayed but appropriate.”
“Fuck your gift.”
“Such language from a scientist.” He sounds amused. “Open the file, Anya Nikolayevna. I’ll wait.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“You won’t.” Ice clinks again. “Because you’ve spent seven years wondering what really killed your mother, and I’m offering you the answer. Free of charge.”
My blood goes cold.
“What did you say?”
“Tatiana Nikolayevna Morozova. Admitted to Klinika Dvadtsat’ Tri on March fifteenth. Died six weeks laterof ‘complications from experimental treatment.’ You were eighteen. You held her hand at the end.” Another pause. “She was lying on her left side when they found her. Facing the window. They often do that, the ones who are trying to escape. The ones who still believe there might be something beyond the pain.”
Left side. Facing the window.
The detail I never told anyone. The image that haunts me every time I close my eyes.
“How do you know that?” My voice comes out strangled. “How the fuck do you know that?”
“Open the file.”
The line goes dead.
The shower is still running. Ten feet away, Roman washes my scent off his skin while I stare at my phone on the nightstand, and something cold starts spreading through my chest.
The notification glows. One new message. Unknown sender.
My thumb opens the file before the rational part of my brain can stop it.
The document loads slowly. Cyrillic text. Clinical formatting. And the header at the top makes my vision narrow to a single burning point.
Fentanyl Protocol. Human Trial Authorization.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no—”
The date. Seven years ago. The year my mother stopped recognizing my face. The year she started scratching at her arms until they bled. The year I held her hand in a room that smelled like jasmine and watched her slip away piece by piece.
I scroll down, and my mother’s face stares back at me.
The hospital gown hanging loose on shoulders that used to hold me. Hollow cheeks that used to press against mine when she sang me to sleep. Eyes already half-gone to whatever poison they were pumping into her veins.
Subject Name: Tatiana Nikolayevna Morozova. Trial Protocol: Fentanyl Compound Stability Assessment. Authorization Level: Priority One.
“Blyad.” The word tears out of me. “Oh god. Oh fuck—”
I keep scrolling to the signature field.
Authorization granted by
The handwriting I would recognize anywhere. The sharp downstroke on the R. The aggressive flourish on the V. The same arrogant scrawl he used to sign our marriage license, while I told myself I would kill the monster standing beside me.
R. V. Volkov.
The phone slips from my fingers.
